


Hang on to yourself

by basaltgrrl, debl_ns



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/debl_ns/pseuds/debl_ns





	1. Prologue

  
He'd been beaten before.

Oh yes, many times. In the school yard, before he'd had a chance to toughen up. He remembered walking home with the snot and dirt and tears making a mess on his face, Stu catching him outside the garden gate and giving him a brisk scrub with a rag. Telling him to be a man.

By his father. A hard man with a heavy hand. Those beatings, however hated they had been, had taught Gene a lot of things. How to take pain and turn it around, turn it from weakness into strength. How to keep hating, keep resisting, when a part of him wanted to crumble.

So this wasn't really any different.

They'd started with hoses. Short lengths of garden hose; they whistled through the air and impacted his ribs with a stunning thwack. He'd jerked and fought against the rope, hanging from a ceiling beam with his feet just touching the floor. After an eternity or thirty minutes of it they'd stopped, leaving him swaying on his toes, snorting for air and gagging on the rag jammed in his mouth, while they conferred.

"Oi!" A sharp voice brought him back into focus. "See, we're trying to figure out if you're worth keeping alive, mate." A grizzled face swam in his view, deepset grey eyes under a brown hat.

Gene raised an eyebrow, though his breath came faster. "Unnh," he snorted.

"No, think you've said enough. Geordie doesn't need to hear any more of your poison. You're bad news, Williams--if that's even your name."

"Why don't we shank 'im?" whined the younger one. Bloodthirsty, that one. Never killed before. Gene knew the type; the boy would probably throw up if he ever saw a cut throat.

"We figure out who he is, we might get a ransom. Might make some money on the bleedin' fool."

Gene worked his jaws, pushing the lump of cloth out of the way. So helpless, it was the only thing he could do. The only power he had, the strength of his words. They had already taken his fists from him--arms going numb, hands long ago lost to feeling, and his bulk, his speed.

His brains were his only weapon, at this point, but they'd done a remarkably good job of hamstringing that strength as well. In his helplessness he was starting to realize, starting to accept that the only power left to him was the strength of his team.

Tyler.

If he couldn't talk to the thugs, convince them--and that had worked so bloody well for him so far, hadn't it, then?--maybe his only real hope was that Sam would realize that the undercover op had failed. Because, to be honest, he wasn't worth keeping alive. Not to these blokes. And that scared him more than any number of hours hanging from a beam, taking punches.

Gene snorted blood or snot out of his nose, closed his eyes. Tried to take a little more weight on his toes.

_Come get me, Sam._  
  



	2. Hang on to yourself - Chapter One

Sam came out of the toilet, dressed in his trousers. He'd pulled on a clean shirt and was rubbing his wet hair with a towel. The short ends stuck up like cactus spines. He walked barefoot on the faded carpet into the kitchen where Gene had placed eggs and butter on the worktop, and was banging about. Coffee was percolating on the stove.

“What are you doing, Gene?” Sam asked.

“It's called making breakfast. What kind of copper are you, Gladys?” He shot a look at Sam then went back to rummaging through his cupboard. “Bloody hell, where do you keep your frying pan? Bread?”

Sam sighed. “I'll do it. You'll make a mess.”

“It's only eggs. Toast. I can manage that without setting anything on fire.” Gene paused, a bottle of jam in his hand. “Course, the state of your flat … burning it to the ground could be a good thing.”

Sam threw a glance at the meager furnishings. The unmade bed. “You enjoyed the bed.”

Gene chuckled. “It was more the bedmate.” He looked up from scrambling the eggs. “Sit, and chew on that,” he said, indicating a folder on the table with a nod of his head.

Sam sat, reaching for the file and inspecting the contents. He read it in silence, frown lines eating into his brow.

Gene set two plates of eggs and buttered toast on the table. Without asking, he poured him a cup of coffee from the percolator and pushed it across the table, along with the milk and sugar.

Sam snapped closed the folder and considered what he would say. He added two sugar lumps to his coffee. “Shit,” he said quietly. “You're going inside, then. Alone.”

“Yes,” Gene replied. “We need to find out who's behind these murders. Rathbone agrees.”

Sam reached for the cup, wanting something to do with his hands. He spun it around then turned it back the other way. “I don't like it. And why didn't you tell me last night?”

“Maybe I just wanted you last night.”

“I see.” Disquiet rose up in his throat like heartburn.

Gene picked up the salt and coated his eggs. “Is it just me, or are you sulking?”

Sam picked at his food with his fork. “Sulking? This is about safety, Gene. Yours! It's not a private swingers party. It's dangerous!”

“It's murder. It's always dangerous, that,” he answered and shoved a forkful of food into his mouth.

“Why do you have to take it on?” Sam took a sip of the coffee, not caring if it blistered his tongue. His insides were already inflamed.

Gene shook his fork in Sam's face. “She was executed, Sam. Two shots to the back of the head. An old lady. I don't give a damn who her son is, she was his Mum.” Gene put it down with an authoritative bang. “I bloody want this. What happened in London does not happen in my city. I'll see to it. I'll send those bastards to gaol … until they die.”

Sam was sure of three things. Gene could be murdered himself because of the undercover operation. Second, his own premonition of danger was legitimate. He could feel it in the anxiety that was heating up his guts and threatening to reduce him to ashes. Third, he didn't want to fight with him. Not now. “You could die,” Sam said, touching Gene's arm.

“Let's make sure it doesn't come to that, then, Doubting Thomas.” Gene smiled at Sam fondly. “Use your loaf. You're letting what you want muddy your brain. It's what you know. Everything will go according to plan.”

“Gene--”

“What?”

Sam pushed his coffee cup aside and got to his feet, putting his hand in the small of his back. “Be careful. Will you do that much?”

Gene got up, looking into Sam's eyes. “I'll be back,” he promised.

I'll see that he comes back, Sam thought.

“I'll gird up me loins.”

He'd be preparing for battle like a Roman soldier. An image of Gene cinching up and securing his tunic with a heavy leather belt before combat made Sam feel a shiver of excitement. “Jesus, I fancy your loins.”

“Go on, then. Do something about it.”

He went to Gene. They stood together in each other's arms, for awhile, in silence. Sam shook himself free, fumbling with the zip of his trousers. “Do you--”

“Yeah.” Gene covered Sam's hand with his. “I can handle you, Tyler.”

A smile flickered at the corner of Sam's mouth. “Just what I had in mind.”


	3. Hang on to yourself - Making Mistakes

By the end of Gene's first day undercover he had made at least ten mistakes.

It wasn't the way the plan was supposed to go, and he was furious with himself. He was out of practice. He was rough as a new recruit. He was just lucky these poncey Southern bastards had their hands full learning the layout of a new city, or they would have had their eye on him far more than they already did--and that was saying something. From a near verbal recognition at the chippy to his unfortunate bristling when Carl snapped an order, and a host of awkward moments in between, it had been a day of intermittent terror that he masked with forced rough banter. As soon as he had a moment's privacy, in the tiny loo at their tiny flat, he changed from his sweat-soaked shirt and cursed his own stink of fear.

Truth was, he mused to himself as he did the washing up after their lacklustre tea of beans, toast and tinned spinach, Sam might have done a better job in his place. Not that he'd ever tell the smug git that to his face.

Geordie and Carl were decent blokes--as cold-blooded killers went. Southern, yes, but not the classy sort; he could recognize in their body language a certain kinship, and their willingness to share a shitty flat among five men showed the kind of hardbitten pragmatism that came with long years working their way up the ladder. It was all good, right? He'd lived the same kind of life himself, although on the opposite side of the law from these criminal masterminds; surely they'd recognize something in his attitude. The other locals who'd been hired were fortunately not men Gene had dealt with in the past.

He hung the dishcloth over the faucet tap to dry and turned to meet Carl's unswerving stare.

"All done then, Henry?" Gene thought there was a mocking tone to the words. Carl slumped in the armchair, cigarette hanging from his slack fingers, one ankle propped on the other knee. He was a big man, as tall as Gene but younger. Harder. Not a man to take lightly. His sandy hair was cut as short as Sam's, and his disconcertingly pale grey eyes seemed to bore holes.

"Better to deal with it right away, my mum always said," he answered.

"Mummy's boy, then."

He gave back as good as he got in the glare department. "Not any more."

Geordie snorted but didn't look up from the telly.

Mackie and Peter laughed suddenly at the table. Mackie had produced a deck of cards from his jacket of many pockets. "Care for a game, mate?"

Yeah, thought Gene to himself, with resignation, but not with you. "Sure. How much?" He dug around for some change. Carl rose from the armchair and took the remaining seat at the round kitchen table. They played poker with as much enthusiasm as a group of boys waiting to take a maths exam. It felt passing strange to be doing these things with a group of strangers--a thought that he tried to push away again and again, but without much success. It was hard not to imagine Sam's flat. Sam's cooking, always a little bit unexpected and shockingly better than anything he could make himself. Sam's bed, the two of them, tired together.

Mackie scooped up the cards with a crow of victory. "Cor, it's like playing cards with a mental."

Gene didn't have to fake the bristling; truth was he wanted to bash Mackie one in his fat, ugly gob. "I'm dead on my feet. Wondering if I get the bed or the floor tonight."

He stood up, with a hard, measuring stare into Mackie's piggish eyes, and then slouched to the sofa, sank into it next to Geordie who shifted over a few inches. The entire place stank of mildew and stale beer. He fished his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, sucked down the smoke for a few moments in blissful silence.

Carl finished his own ciggie and ground it out against the sole of his own shoe. "You knew the deal, Henry. No special privileges, but a good payout in the end. Having second thoughts?"

Gene snorted. "Not bloody likely. Chance like this, once in a lifetime. I'm your man."

"Hope you still feel that way after Sunday."

"Have I given you any reason to think I'd change my mind?" He sucked his cigarette down to the end and tossed it in the ashtray, then dug out a second one with a sense of resignation. Sam would be scowling, telling him to space them out. Well, bollocks to Sam. "What's Sunday, then?"

Geordie chuckled to himself, eyes still fixed on the telly. Carl leaned forward in his chair. "Look, Williams. You'll prove your worth to me, one way or another." He waved an expansive hand. "I'm no shrinking violet, and I've been around the block more than a few times. I know your type--or I will, in a day or two, and then we'll see what you can really do for me. You ever kill a man?"

Gene exhaled a long stream of smoke. "I have done."

"Well, you'll kill another before our work is over."

***

There was a point, the next evening, when Gene knew it was going pear-shaped. What's more, he wanted it to happen.

It had been a long day. The sort of day he hadn't had for years with the sort of experiences he had hoped to leave behind. Being ordered about. Standing in the cold rain for two hours waiting for some blokes to show up, turning up the collar of his waxed cotton jacket, pulling his hat down a little closer over his eyes and cursing the world, the criminal element, and in particular one Carl Reynolds. Who the bloody hell knew that the hardest thing about going undercover as a member of a murderous criminal gang was going to be the abrasive personality of his erstwhile leader?

Although, come to think of it, perhaps the real problem was having a leader at all. Didn't feel natural, any more, taking orders.

When they finally retreated to their shitehole of a flat they were all damp and sullen, except, perhaps, for Carl who had spent a significant part of the day in a pub. That was Gene's professional opinion as an undercover detective, anyway, based on Carl's distinct odour of malt beverage and the fact that Gene himself had been lookout in front of the Pig and Whistle for the greater part of the afternoon.

"So did you get anything out of that experience besides a massive bender?" he couldn't stop himself from asking.

Carl froze for a moment in the act of hanging his jacket on the back of a chair, head cocked and staring at Gene in that way that was already all too familiar. "What did you just say?"

"What did you learn, mate? What's our next move?"

Carl's nostrils flared. "Did I tell you to ask me questions?"

"All you told me to do today was stand in a doorway. Didn't feel like I was achieving a bloody thing. Maybe I want to know that that was worth something."

The others had frozen into a tableau of horrified fascination. A brief flicker of Carl's gaze let Gene know that he was fully aware of the rapt audience, and a subliminal tensing of muscles put him on his guard. The blow was expected but powerful. Carl's fist sank into Gene's belly, and a moment later a slap to the head knocked him back against the wall. Nothing he couldn't take, but it stirred the red rage inside and he was fighting himself--bastard big rage it was, the kind that made him want to literally kill something, not that he hadn't learned to control that impulse long ago. He was trying--he was really trying to make this work. To gain the trust of this midlevel underworld scrote, to stay in his good graces for long enough to do his bloody job, and Carl seemed bound and determined to make this impossible.

Gene sagged against the wall, stomach convulsing on the nothing he'd eaten all day, and a fist lashed out to take him across the jaw, snap his head back the other way.

He could move quickly. It always took people by surprise when he did, just because he was a big man and tended to exaggerate his size with his clothing and his stance. It was nothing to knock Carl back sprawling across the kitchen table. A moment later a table leg gave way and Carl slid to the floor, and Gene was right there, booted foot drawn back. Carl had his hands up, face contorted in rage.

Something hit Gene's head so hard it sang. He staggered forward a step, vision going dark, and then hands were grabbing him, forcing him back. Somewhere someone was yelling, hard, angry words. Hands pushed him into a chair.

He figured he'd lost a few seconds of time, because the next thing he knew was Carl's face, purple with anger, and spittle was flying from his lips. "I'll beat some fucking sense into you, you gigantic bastard! Do what I say or you'll never live to know better! I'll rip you a new one, arsehole! Are you hearing me, Williams?" It was unnerving, all right, and not pleasant, but there was familiarity in being put in his place. Just reminding him that this was a game they all played, and that he still knew the rules, still knew how to knuckle under and take his reprimand.

Gene rocked a little in the kitchen chair, dizzy. He lifted his hands to the table--they felt heavy as rocks. "So," he croaked. "'M I still in? Do I still have a job?"

Carl pinned him with a look, then shook his head. "Lord. They breed 'em hard up here, eh? So you're still my man, eh, Henry?"

"Fuck, yeah." Gene coughed. "Who's up for a game of cards?"

Mackie tittered--there was no other word for it, and when Carl stomped off into the other room and came back with his cigarettes he seemed to have burned off the worst of his rage. Geordie hefted a bottle of beer, no doubt what he had clocked Gene with, the bastard.

"Seriously, blokes. Whisky? Let's have a round." Gene fished around until he found the two flasks in his inner pockets.

"Yer a daft bugger," Carl growled. "Gi' me some of that." He took a long slug straight from Gene's flask, dropped his hand to eye Gene consideringly, then took a second drink.

"Oi. Save some for the rest of us."

"Oh, you'll get yours. But always after I take what's mine." The words fell with the force of prophecy.


	4. Hang on to yourself - the Home Front

There was no air in Gene's office. It was warm and smelled of sweat, years of musty paperwork and half-smoked cigarettes.

Gene's unfinished cup of coffee still stood amongst the mess of papers on the desktop blotter. Sam stared into the cup. There was a fly in the dark liquid kicking its legs in the scum like it was doing the backstroke, but going nowhere. He'd kept the cup Gene had drunk from; it was real, part of Gene. Keeping it meant Gene was coming back. I'll be back, Gene had promised. If he couldn't believe his best friend, who could he believe?

Sam pulled Gene's chair up to the desk. He wanted to write up his notes of his interview with Brian Matthews before the afternoon briefing with Superintendent Rathbone. He'd be wanting the details of the local man's arrest and whether or not Sam had been able to get anything out of Matthews that would tie Carl Reynolds to the murders.

Reynolds was a typical bit of lowlife but with a right mean streak. Big trouble wherever he was. A dead body or two, and Reynolds was definitely involved. And Gene was in there, gathering evidence. He'd be all right--if he could keep his mouth shut.

Sam put his hands on the edge of the desk. He ran his fingers over the wood. It was cool, like his hands. Not like when his fingers had moved smoothly over Gene's warm body, coming to rest in the glistening sweat in the small of his back.

Sam pressed the play button of the tape recorder. “Interview commenced at eleven fifteen pm, Thursday, twenty-first--”

Sam was aware of Ray, hanging about in the doorway, studying him. He pressed stop and looked at the DS, wondering why he didn't come farther into the room. “Are you coming in, then?” he asked.

The door to Gene's office thumped shut, shutting out the CID room. Ray made his way into the room, his hands fisted at his sides as if he was readying himself for a punch-up with Sam. He shoved his hands into his pockets and settled himself, slouching into a chair with his feet stuck out in front of him.

Sam waited, but Ray was uncharacteristically tight-lipped. They didn't speak to each other for a minute. Ray was looking at him with that mocking expression that told Sam he merely stood in Gene's shadow … and Ray was never going to let him forget it. His posture was a further indication of disrespect; a lowering of standards that Ray would never show Gene. “Ray? Something on your mind?” he asked, trying not to sound as annoyed as he felt.

“He's not back.”

“That's right.”

Ray's jaw tightened. “Has he been in touch?”

“He rang me a few hours before we picked up Matthews. He's okay.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ray wasn't convinced. “You speak to the waste of space yet?”

“There was a formal interview with Matthews last night. He didn't cooperate. Obviously, he remains our priority. I'll be interviewing him again today.”

Ray snorted then he looked at Sam like he was a bleeding nutter. “Bugger that.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Let me have at him. A proper grilling. He'll be happy to talk.”

Sam put his hands flat on the desk and pushed Gene's chair back. He stood up slowly. “And let you take the piss with him.”

“I'd thump him,” Ray admitted. “It's what I'd do--for a friend.” Sam met Ray's eyes. There was contempt in them, impatience. “But you're not me, are you, Boss? Are you're going to let him down, then?”

The words hung there, between them. “No, Ray. I'm not going to let him down.”

“What are you waiting for? Until it's too bloody late!”

“What I want from you is--”

“Not that you'd do anything but give me orders. Well, I know what's right and what isn't--” Ray jumped up from his chair and lunged at Sam.

Sam grabbed Ray's arm and bent it, forcing him around.

“Hey!” he protested, with a howl.

“We can fall out or have a nice little chat. Are you with me?”

“Do what you want. See if I care.”

Sam let go of him. “Are you with me on this?” Ray must not have heard him repeat his question because he walked away. Sam looked down and shook his head. He saw the fly floating on top of the coffee. It was dead.

*****

The Railway Arms smelled of cheap aftershave and perspiration. Cigarette smoke was suspended in the room like a mist. The pub was full of coppers and half-empty pints littered the tables. Two men were playing an informal game of darts. An image of Gene leaning on the wooden bar, one leg propped up on a stool, smiling at him through the smoke, entered Sam's mind for a moment then was gone.

The barman, Nelson, was mopping the woodwork with a towel. He was wearing an orange shirt covered by a lime green sweater vest. He paused in front of Sam, his hand still moving the towel in a clockwise motion.

From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Ray and Chris coming toward him. He looked up from his stool as Ray stood over him.

“You're drunk,” Sam said.

“Get up.”

“Not now, Ray.”

“Get. Up.”

“What do you want?”

Chris tugged at Ray's sleeve. “What are you doing, Ray?”

“Yeah, I've been drinking. So what?”

Chris pulled on Ray's sleeve. “Come on, let's go back to our table.”

Ray jerked his arm away, stumbling against the bar. “Don't just sit there like the bastard you are. Stand up.”

Sam held up his palms. “Listen, leave me alone, will you?”

“I'll knock you down, Tyler.”

Sam got to his feet. “Don't touch me.”

Swaying, Ray grabbed Sam's shirt front. Sam could smell ale on his breath. Sam stiffened then grinned and raised his arm, making his hand into a fist.

Nelson leaned across the bar top and made a noise of disapproval. “Not tonight, my friends. I set the rules here. This is a respectable pub.”

Ray shrugged himself free. “Bloody hell,” he said. “I was just messing with him.” Then something else caught his attention and he wandered off.

“Sorry,” Chris said, offering an apologetic smile. He trailed after Ray like a new puppy.

Nelson looked at Sam, assessing him like he knew all his secrets. “I know what you're thinking, Sam.”

“First, a drink.”

“What's it to be?”

“Pint of bitter.” Sam sank on to the stool.

The barman pulled the pint, rang up the sale then came back, his dreadlocks swinging. He set the beer in front of Sam. “You're wondering what else Mr. Hunt could have done.”

Sam wrapped his hand around the beer glass. “Gene wanted to go in solo.”

“It was a mistake.”

Sam laughed without humour. “Jesus, Nelson, not you, too.”

“But mistakes are the foundations of truth.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” Sam sighed. “I had something and then I lost it. How do you think that feels, Nelson?” Sam lifted the glass to his mouth and took a swallow of the beer. At that moment, the phone on the bar top began to ring.

The barman lifted the handset, listened and handed it to Sam. “For you, Mon Brave. Henry.”

Sam wiped the back of his hand over his chin then took the phone. “Hi, it's me.”

“Of course, it is, you idiot. I asked for you, didn't I?”

Sam grinned. “Where are you?”

“Stopped off at a Paki shop. Picking up fags. You know it, Mr. Chowdhury's.”

He's from Bangladesh not Pakistan. “Yes, I do,” Sam replied. “Is everything going okay?”

“I've got a lot on my mind right now. Everything that's happened. I may have to tear Reynolds apart then eat him for tea. Would solve all our problems.”

“I don't doubt it.” He shot a look at Nelson, but he'd turned his back on him, pretending not to be listening. “Are you sober?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I've had a few. And so have you, I reckon. I don't need you hounding me, Sam. What about Matthews? ”

“He's mum.”

Gene grunted. “You're always thorough, but next time it might be better if you use Ray. So, what do you say, eh?”

“Say to Ray? No, damn it! We can do this civilised.”

“Never mind your bloody principles. Let's see if Ray can do better. For starters, he's as big a bugger as Matthews.”

Sam glanced down at his beer in silence.

“Are you listening to me?” Gene asked.

“I can hear quite well.”

“Think of it as torment ... not torture.”

Sam snorted. “Don't think of it as torture, think of it as torment,” he muttered to himself. “Bullshit.”

Gene laughed. “Meantime, we're going to play robbers,” he said, his voice subdued. “A lot of money involved.”

“Sounds like something. When?” A glass broke. “Henry, are you there?” There was laughter. It was so loud Sam turned to look. Ray. Cut it out, you idiot. Couldn't he see he was worried? Sam stuck a finger in his ear so he could hear. “Henry?” There was no reply, just the beating of his own heart. “Gene!” Sam said, losing control and saying his name into the phone.

There was a dial tone then a click. He'd rung off. Or been forced to hang up. Sam replaced the handset on its base. His heart pumped anxiety through his lungs like blood, making it difficult to breathe. Oh, shit.


	5. Hang on to yourself - Playacting

Monday, 5:45 a.m.

Gene got up to take a slash.

The world had shifted from black shapes to grey outside the uncurtained windows of their flat. The night air stank of damp wood and mildew. He paused by the kitchen window, leaning over the sink to scan the dark street. The shadows hid the trash, the weeds, the stained concrete, but the place was lifeless. Wait--a flicker of movement, an alley cat ghosting across the road. It paused with one paw lifted, then disappeared into the darkness under a car. The quiet street seemed to heave a breath, sighing in through the window and out again. Gene fumbled for his pocket, fished out a cigarette and lit it without looking, closing his eyes as the first buzz of nicotine hit with a pleasurable rush.

The blanket-covered lump on the sofa rolled over and groaned. Gene ignored the sound, lingered in his small moment of quiet while the tendrils of smoke curled around his face like--no. There wasn't time or space for that kind of shite. The soft, lonely mess in his mind, the awareness of what was missing. He tapped a finger impatiently on the countertop. There was only focus; the job at hand, the necessity of working with Carl Reynolds. He stared out over the rooftops, at the spot where the sky was starting to take on colour and shape. 

"Fuckin' hell." The bedroom door banged open. Gene twisted around to see Carl swaying in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What bloody time is it?"

"Too bloody early," Gene answered him and stared out the window again. The pink sky made silhouettes of buildings.

Carl disappeared into the loo and slammed the door. Gene flipped on the kitchen light, ignoring the soft curses from around the room, let his cigarette drop into the sink, and then turned on the kettle and fished a frying pan out of the cabinet. By the time Carl had finished his morning ablutions, Gene had a half-dozen eggs sizzling in the pan.

"Good man," Carl said, clapping him on the shoulder before dropping tea bags into the pot and filling it with the steaming water. As the room filled with the smell of hot oil and the perfume of black pekoe, Carl made a circuit of the sitting room, poking the slowly stirring mounds of men with his toe. "Up and at 'em, gents. Get your lazy arses out of bed. Christ, it's like being a nanny--what, do you need me to cut your toast for you?"

Mackie sat up straight on the sofa. "No, boss," he muttered, then buried his face in his hands. "Think I had one too many last night."

"Girl," Gene growled.

"Oi! I didn't see you holding back!"

"Didn't need to. I can outdrink every one of you toe rags and still be walking a line straighter than you can shoot that gun of yours."

"Bollocks!"

Carl flashed a grin at Gene from across the room. It was so unexpected that Gene grinned back, noting the way the long planes of Carl's face became softened and humanized by the expression.

"Breakfast," he announced, transferring the skillet to the table. A moment later he had rescued the toast from the grill, grabbed marmalade and butter and a table knife and deposited the lot next to a stack of plates. "Serve yourselves; I'm the cook, not your bloody mother."

The men dragged themselves out of their blankets, onto their feet. There weren't enough chairs in the place for the lot of them, but Mackie, Fred and Geordie sat on the sofa, Gene, Carl and Peter at the table. 

"What's on the list for today?" Geordie asked Carl as they were all scraping their plates. There was a sudden, anticipatory hush.

Carl leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigarette. His casual arrogance made Gene want to cuff the back of his head, snatch the fag from his mouth and slam his forehead against the table. Ah, yes, Carl did rub him the wrong way. And yeah, he could tell that it was because they were so much alike. No wonder Sam had fought so fiercely, sometimes just for the principle of the thing. It was only now, in this situation, that Gene fully understood what it had been like for Sam in those early days.

"Today, then," Carl drawled. "We'll be on the west end of town. I have some names of people we need to talk to. We'll split up, groups of two." He paused to inhale smoke. "Henry, you're with me."

Gene gave a curt nod. It was no more than he had expected. He wasn't sure if Carl was trying to test him, single him out, keep him away from the others... There was something. But there were moments, like that grin from across the room just before breakfast, when there seemed to be a real bond. Maybe Carl was still trying to suss him out, to know how to use Gene to the fullest, or just to know what kind of resource he had on his team. Maybe he had suspicions; maybe he was digging for the truth.

In any case, Gene was his man.

 

Tuesday, 9:45 p.m. 

"Tossers!" Gene snarled, slamming a shoulder against the door as he barged out into the night street, adrenaline and whisky burning in his veins. It felt right and good and oddly proper to be getting lit of a Friday night, and without a care in the world--it was Carl's team, not his, not his responsibility to make sure anyone got home safely... not that he did much of that back in CID, mind, but the thought was always there, or the awareness, anyway. Always paying attention, especially to Chris. Well, and Sam. Why? Because he didn't like seeing Sam get punched, not when he wasn't doing it himself. And there was that weird twist in his stomach when he saw blood on Sam's face, the unaccountable concern, almost what he felt when a bird got hurt. Not the same, though. He bared his teeth at the sky, took a hard slug from his hipflask and grinned.

None of that tonight. Just drinking and bonding and the unthinking way Carl seemed to be accepting Gene's presence at his shoulder.

He turned around and stuck his head back in the pub. "Oi! Carl! Coming, mate?"

The barman shook his fist--not goodnaturedly, neither, and Carl was already on his way to the door, shrugging on his jacket, Geordie and Fred at his heels. 

The four of them slouched off down the lane, a little unsteady on their feet, puffing clouds of cigarette smoke into the night air.

"God, I can't wait to be rich," Geordie announced to the world after a while. "I'd like to own a really posh car. Maybe one of them, them Jaguars. Birds fighting to ride with me. What do you want to buy, Mack?"

"Allus wanted to run a club. Be the bloke in charge." 

Carl snorted derisively. "Start small, my man. Money runs away faster than you can guess."

"People do it all the time, though!"

"Lose the shirts off their backs, too. No thanks."

They strode on in silence for a while, footsteps echoing off damp concrete.

"And you, Henry?"

Carl's eye was speculative, judging. Gene snorted. "Find a good woman, move to Spain... not necessarily in that order. After that... depends on the world, really. Depends how well this job does for me. How well might this job do for me, Carl?"

"We should all make out like bandits."

"All I want is enough money that I don't have to listen to what anyone says." As Gene spoke the words, intending them to be flippant, typical of the character he was playing, he realized how true they rang. It's what he would want, were he actually a lowlife scrote--and for all that it felt good to not be in charge, it also felt wrong. He wanted authority, wanted it with a burning desire, resented Carl for taking it from him. 

"Cor!" crowed Mackie. "He wants to be king of the world!"

"No, just king of my world," Gene groused.

"Carl! What're you going to do?"

Footsteps crunched on gravel, echoing off brick walls.

"Plan the next job."

Gene rolled his eyes. "What, you don't have an end in sight?"

"I'm living the dream," Carl growled, face made skeletal by the shadows. "Why should I make other plans?" He closed his eyes for a moment, as if too tired to keep them open, as he took a long drag on a cigarette. "'S my bleeding life. All there is. All there will be. And I'm fucking good at it."

"That you are, mate," Fred mumbled. "Bleedin' lunatic, but you got it all planned out."

"Do you?" Gene asked.

"Hell yes. Can't you tell what I'm thinking? Cos I can read your mind."

"What am I thinking, then?" Gene met Carl's gaze with his best Manc Lion stare, his biggest chest-puffed-out pose.

Carl eyed him with a wry smile, wintry under the bleak light of the street lights. "Think you're the big man, eh? I can tell, Williams, that you haven't told me any more than I've told you. Yeah, I know I stepped into your territory, and you didn't like that. Could read it from the start. I'm no fool, mate, and I don't need to throw my weight around. I came into town because I have it in me to make the biggest haul and be the biggest hero. And thing is," he stepped a little closer, close enough to throw an arm over Gene's shoulders, "I can take you out. I don't need the rest of these, I can take you out myself if I have any doubt. Understand?"

Gene found himself nodding, the weight of that arm pressing each of his footfalls harder into the street.

 

 

Wednesday, 10:10 a.m. 

The bank teller looked Gene over with a languid eye, then extended an imperious hand for his deposit slip. Gene looked sideways, then stuffed his hands into his pockets, itching for a smoke.

"Mr. Williams?"

"That's right."

"You want to deposit fifteen pounds?"

"That's correct."

The teller lifted an eyebrow--so fucking imperious that Gene wanted to punch him one just to make him stop--and brought pen to paper. "I just needed to ascertain your true intentions."

"I bloody well wrote it down, didn't I?"

"Indeed, sir, you did. Well then, your fifteen pounds?"

Gene dug around in his trouser pocket and withdrew the handful of grubby notes. The teller gave him another look before sorting the money with his fingertips. Gene glanced around the room again; he was the only one of the team in here. There was one entrance to the rear of the bank, through the door behind the counter. Just a few employees at this time of day. He had a brief, involuntary vision of walking out the front door to find Sam leaning against the wall, waiting for him, all skinny limbs and black leather and shit-eating grin.

Access to the back would have to be during working hours, unless Carl had some serious explosives available to him. As was typical of banks, physical security was of the "thick iron bars" variety. As he gazed into the far corner of the room, Gene flashed back to the conversation of the morning.

"You want me to what?"

"Case the bank."

"That's what I thought you said."

Carl had cocked an eyebrow--somehow it always seemed odd to watch his face change expression, as if his habitual dour, chiseled look was permanent--and hadn't answered in words.

"Well, why? Are we going to rob it?"

"Can't you just take an order, for bleeding once, Williams? Set a good example, be a good little messenger boy and tell me what the inside of that building looks like?"

Gene had inhaled hugely, biding his time and pondering motives. "Can," he had drawled at last. "Don't know as though I want to unless I've got a good reason to."

"Insufferable git."

"What am I going to get out of it?"

"You know what." They had stared into each other's faces for far too long at that point; long enough that Gene felt sweat prickling between his shoulder blades. "Information," Carl growled at last. "We'll know things we didn't know before."

Oh, aye, Gene thought to himself. We'll know a few things. But nothing was obvious with Carl. Nothing was what it seemed. He still didn't know what it had meant. Did Carl want to rob a bank? He needed to make another phone call to Sam, sometime soon. There might be a phone he could use, here in the building, without being seen by any of Carl's men.

As the teller handed him his receipt, he cleared his throat. "Is there a phone I can use?"

"Yes, sir. In the hall toward the front entrance. You came directly past it. Will that be all?"

"Yeah. Cheers."

Gene found that his heart was pounding as he picked up the phone receiver. He might not get Sam at once; he might have to talk to Phyllis. But--he dialed Sam's direct line.

"CID, Sam Tyler speaking." 

Gene choked on his words for a moment, then stammered, "Sam, it's me."

"Gene!" There was a silence, a faint shuffle of paper. Sam sighed. "How are you?"

"Fine. Just needed to let you know, the target may be a bank. Might be Barclays. Can't guarantee anything. Still not sure when." Nervous--why was he nervous?

"OK. Well, let me know the details when you have them. Otherwise it's as good as sitting on our thumbs, doing nothing."

"I just--" Gene cut himself off. He couldn't bloody well say that he just wanted to hear the sound of Sam's voice, now, could he?

"You don't have to keep doing this."

"That's where you're wrong."

"Your heart's not in it, Gene. I can tell. I can read you like a book, even over the phone, you--"

Gene dropped the receiver in the cradle.

Carl's face was peering in through the glass doors of the bank, hand cupped over his brow to block the light. Hard to tell where his eyes were. Hard to tell what he was looking at. Impossible to know his mind.


	6. Hang on to yourself - Dreams and nightmares

Sam was lost even though he'd followed the path. Green leaves blotted out the sky, some interlocking, some allowing the sun to peek through. It was like looking at an incomplete puzzle. He smelled dirt, bark, grass--primeval smells that added to the sense that this place was well and truly wild. He thought he saw something sitting inside a rotting log, covered in moss. A flick of a grey tail and it was gone, further into the log.

Daddy, where are you? He heard a noise. A footstep, a loud crack of a branch. Something moved in the trees. He wondered if it was big. (He hoped it was Daddy.) Another twig snapped, and he jumped. It was getting closer. “Daddy!” Sam felt a warm dribble of urine trickle down his leg like a tear. “He's coming back!” he cried. “My daddy's coming back!”

A figure was outlined by the sun, rays tracing arms and legs. Sam was sure it had no head. He saw it move ahead along the path and then a voice said, “What are you afraid of, boy?” It was Daddy in his worn suit and tie and scuffed shoes, and he forgot his fear and squealed in relief. He leapt forward and grabbed hold of his father's leg. The material felt smooth in his fingers and he could feel the warmth underneath. “Where were you?” Sam said, sniveling.

Vic placed his battered satchel on the ground. It was black, made from cheap imitation leather. “Why are you crying, little man?”

“I'm n-not c-crying. You disappeared … a-and I didn't know where you'd gone. I heard a … and I saw the … I c-called and you never answered. W-Why didn't you answer?”

“Okay. Jesus,” Vic said, patting him on the shoulder. “Pull yourself together, son.”

“Don't go, Daddy.”

“I'm afraid I have to go.”

“Don't go.”

Vic put his arms around Sam, draping them over the black leather jacket and giving him a long hug, and even though Vic was slight, Sam felt protected. Safe.

“You'll be fine.”

“You have to stay. Daddy, please.”

“Go back to your mother.” Vic said, dropping his hands and smiling. “That sounds like fun, doesn't it?”

Sam gazed at the satchel at his father's feet. “No! I don't want to go back home. I want to be with you!”

Vic sighed. “Act like a big man now, Sammy. You know I have to go. Don't make such a fuss.”

Sam pressed his nose into Vic's jacket, closing his eyes. He could smell his father's cologne, something woodsy--like he really had materialised from the trees. Manly. Mummy said he smelled manly when he splashed it all over. “Stay?”

“I'll see you later.”

“Will you?”

“I'll be back on Saturday to take you to the football. I would never leave without saying goodbye, I promise.”

Sam nodded. Then he felt it. Something soft and plush over arms that were big, solid. A heavy hand squeezed his shoulder. Sam opened his eyes. Gene looked back, bending his head a little to look into Sam's face. He moved his face closer to Sam's, and Sam thought he was going to kiss him, but instead Gene started to fade and Sam found himself clutching at nothing. He'd gone, the bastard.

He woke up suddenly, in Gene's bed, eyes wide, sure that Gene had slipped out of his arms forever. Sam rubbed his hand across his eyes. He'd slept badly, had bad dreams. Again. He stared at the ceiling. It was quiet. Too quiet. When Gene was here, his house resonated with noise … even when he was asleep. Burps. Snores. Farts.

“I'll be home soon,” Gene had said, the last morning they'd woken up together. Sam had placed his hand on Gene's chest, felt the beat of his heart as he'd held it there, rising and falling as Gene had breathed in and out. Gene had grabbed his wrist and pulled Sam to him. “How about a shag, Sappy Sue?” He'd winked and kept his grip. “Stops the thinking.”

“That's what I like about you, the sentimental pillow talk.”

They had both laughed, then Gene had moved his hands, running them over Sam's body like he was a potter and Sam was a lump of clay he was shaping. He'd held Sam, like he was a perfect pot, not marred, and he'd moved his hands skillfully over Sam's moist skin. His touch was both gentle and rough as he'd molded and kneaded, making Sam his own, and Sam was the work of his hands, moaning, writhing, ready to be fired. And, “God, Gene”, he was Gene's and Gene was his and they'd been all hot mouths and wet tongues and hard cocks … and Sam had forgotten everything.

*****

Sam had a quick wash-up before padding downstairs in his bare feet to the kitchen. He fixed himself breakfast, pouring boiling water over instant coffee then, coffee cup in his hand, sat down at the table. As he added milk and two sugar lumps to his drink, he was conscious of Gene's chair on the opposite side of the table. There it was, pushed away from it as if Gene had just gotten up one minute before. Sam took a sip of the coffee and spit it back into the cup; it tasted about as shit as he was feeling. The last interview with Brian Matthews crept into his mind.

Matthews had been an unremarkable bloke, what Sam had termed “average”. Brown-haired and brown-eyed, he'd had small moustache that looked out-of-place on his robust frame, and a tattoo of a buzzard on his right forearm. Predatory. Appropriate, Sam had thought with loathing. Matthews had been uncommunicative at first, facing Sam and Ray across the table with his eyes on the wall like he'd been searching for a way out. Gene would have been perched on the edge of the table, taking control of the interrogation like a king occupying his throne and Matthews his subject. Sam had carried a file folder with him to convey his authority, implying that he had information he could use against Matthews.

“The last time you were interviewed, you didn't want to say anything against Carl Reynolds. You're good at following orders, aren't you, Brian? Running errands. Casing a joint. Removing a witness. Keeping quiet.”

Matthews was silent, his hands in his lap curled like talons. Sam pulled out a black and white photograph of a female murder victim. He leaned toward Matthews, not taking his eyes off him. “I want to talk to you about Maggie Taylor. So, what do you know about her?”

Matthews met Sam's eyes. “I don't know what you mean.”

Sam held up the photo for Matthews to take. Watching his face, Sam had a feeling the man knew exactly whose photo he was going to see. “She witnessed a murder. Her own son. And then she died. Why? Can you answer me that?”

“No,” Matthews said, passing it back. “Don't know, do I? Nothing to do with me.”

“She represented a danger. But do you know what, Brian? She wasn't a danger to anybody. She was sixty-eight years old … Did it make you smile when you learned what Reynolds intended to do?”

Matthews shrugged.

“Say it out loud for the tape, please.”

“It's rubbish. I weren't even there.”

“I don't believe you. I think you helped him do it. Took Carl Reynolds to kill Maggie Taylor. That makes you his accomplice.”

“I'm not … his accomplice. No way.” Matthews put his hands to his stomach. “I haven't eaten,” he complained.

“I had time for some lamb chops and veg before this interview started,” Ray pointed out.

“Table for two in the canteen,” Sam added.

“How about--”

“Sorry, what? Are you asking me if I'll bring you some food? Tom Taylor is dead. Maggie Taylor is dead. Your meat and veg'll wait.” Sam began to go through some of the papers. “How long have you known Reynolds?”

“A bit.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“Here. Manchester. What does it matter?”

Sam sighed. “Okay, Brian. You want to cover for him. Loyalty. It's a rare thing. More like fear, I expect. You know what'll happen? He'll take you down with him. You don't need to go to prison for murder.”

“You're not going to fit me up for that!” Matthews launched himself at Sam, but, before Sam could respond, Ray punched Matthews hard on the side of his head, sending him back into his chair.

“Oi! You need to be taught some manners,” Ray said. He turned to Sam. “Let me have a couple of words with him, Boss. I'll make him confess, all right.”

“It weren't me,” Matthews said, protesting.

“They all say that,” Ray said. “You should know that, Matthews. Give us a statement, then.”

“You won't get anything out of me!”

Sam smiled at Ray sideways, and Ray nodded. They threw themselves forward and dragged Matthews from his chair. He tumbled backwards, catching himself with his right hand, the muscles of his forearm throbbing, making the wings of the buzzard tattoo flutter as if it was going to take flight. Spreadeagled, he scrambled for the far wall his nails digging into the floor.

“Get him!” Sam yelled at Ray.

“I'll have you, you bloody bastard bugger,” Ray hissed.

They grabbed Matthews' arms and slammed him against the wall, letting his head collide with it with a crack. Sam pressed his arm against his throat, and Matthews let out a squawking noise. Their faces were close, Sam's mouth nearly touching Matthews' cheek. Their breath mingled, and Sam was aware of the stink of unbrushed teeth.

“You still want to say you don't know anything?”

“Yeah, you fucking--” Matthews sputtered, spittle dribbling down his chin.

Sam thought about Gene, and he knew that every move he'd made during this case, every one he would make, had been for him, to ensure that he'd get back alive. Sam forced down his arm. Matthews scratched at him with his hands. A voice in the back of Sam's head warned, You idiot, this is how suspects die, but he pushed harder.

“Let's start again,” Sam suggested, his voice hard, “but keep it up, and I'll hang you by the balls from the town hall clock tower.”

“We'll be able to hear the balls … I mean bells ring,” Ray said, and Sam grinned at him.

Matthews' eyes filled with tears and he went still. Sam loosened his hold on him and he dropped to the floor, on all fours. He rolled to his side, his ribs heaving as he gasped for air.

“You're--off--your--head!”

*****

Sam had sat for a while on his own on a kerb outside the Railway Arms. He had bought fish and chips, sharing the fish with two mischievous magpies he'd named Heckle and Jeckle. He'd tossed it into the air, the two birds running after it, then the fish was gone and he'd thrown the paper in a bin.

He contemplated the sky. A low layer of grey clouds were gathering. Plenty of sky to get lost in, that. What was up there? Shangri-La? Or was he already here? Was Carl Reynolds responsible for the murders of Tom Taylor and Maggie Taylor? Both, probably. Jesus, where did that leave Gene? He caught a whiff of the fish and chip paper and felt slightly queasy.

“Oh, you're still here.”

He turned around and saw Annie.

She seemed happy to see him, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I didn't startle you, did I?”

“You? No. Just thinking.”

“Are you all right, Sam?” Annie asked, sitting down beside him.

Sam wondered if she'd still be looking at him with tenderness if she could see the dark hole inside him. He and Ray had gotten out their big sticks with Matthews--and it had been satisfying somehow. Satisfying. No look, however fond, was going to help with that. “Not really,” he said finally.

Annie touched his arm with her hand. She was studying his face, and when she answered it was like she had seen inside him--and found the truth. “Don't be hard on yourself. You did what you thought was best.” She squeezed. “The Guv knows his way around. If he wants out, he'll say so.”

In reply, he pulled her into an embrace, one hand going around her back. “Feelings … They're all brewing inside me.” Sam heard an answering rumble of thunder. “I'm … lost, Annie.”

“You haven't lost yourself,” Annie replied, leaning into him. “You're a good man, and a good copper.” She kissed him on the cheek then pulled away. “And Ray thinks you're brilliant,” she added, winking.

“I don't think he's my type,” Sam said, trying to make it sound flippant. He felt himself close to tears, and blinked. He carried Gene with him, but he had to carry him in a secret place. If only he could talk about it with Annie.

“I could do with a walk.” Annie stood up, holding out her hand. “Come with me.”

He looked up at her, and gave her a smile. She looked pleased that she'd said the right thing. As Sam took her hand, and they stepped from the kerb, rain began to fall.

“I don't mind if it rains,” Annie said softly. “I'll still be your friend.”


	7. Hang on to yourself - True to nature

Gene's fist buried itself in Mackie's stomach.

Everything had gone a bit quiet and still, and it wasn't just because the roomful of people were all staring at him. It was the way he got in a fight, hypersensitive and aware, light on his feet, eyes wide and breathing fast. The rest of the world could have been waiting for him to take a step. It was as if Mackie had stood still and let Gene punch him. He'd do it again, too; Gene could follow up with his left, but he could tell it wouldn't be needed.

Mackie was gaping like a fish, halfway to his knees.

Carl just stood there. Stood there with the rest of the blokes, watching, as if someone had frozen them with one of them comic book freeze rays. Gene grabbed Mackie by the hair--it was long enough to wrench his head back, get up close with him, make eye contact. "You bloody do that again and I'll rip you a new hole, matey," he snarled, spit flying.

"Unh, s-sorry, Henry," Mackie gurgled.

Gene released him with a shove, sent him sprawling against the bar, earned himself a resentful look from the barman who had just finished pulling two pints. "Oi! Watch it, or I'll have you out of here!"

Gene made a dismissive gesture and dug in his pocket for change to pay for the beer.

"Remember that, mates," Carl commented as he hefted a pint. "Henry doesn't appreciate that sort of talk about birds."

Gene didn't, and therefore Henry didn't, either. No disrespecting women in Gene Hunt's town--he hadn't been close to revealing himself this entire time undercover, and he wasn't now, not really, because this sort of chivalry was transferrable. He didn't like that kind of behavior, and truth be told, he didn't like Mackie. All bravado when he had backup, willing to step on the weak. Ugly face, too, all nose and no chin, twitchy eyes. What had he said? "Old biddy," or "old tart" or some such, not the sort of thing Gene ever wanted to hear from his men--from anyone he was working with.

"Didn't 'ave to punch me," Mackie muttered angrily, belly to the bar.

"What?"

"I said--" he growled with rebellious emphasis, dark eyes snapping, but Carl dropped a heavy hand on the crown of Mackie's head, tousled his black hair.

"It's over, mate. Over and done with. We're all pals here, right?" Carl pushed between them, close enough to brush Gene's shoulder, tilted his glass to clink against Gene's.

Gene pursed his lips in acknowledgement, tilted the glass back to let the golden froth slide into his mouth. The pressure of Carl's elbow against his was a reassurance. His knuckles tingled, half numb from the impact, the imprint of fabric on the thin skin over his bones. It made him feel like he ought. Drinking, joking, playing darts, getting into the occasional punch-up... it all seemed so normal, so natural, that Gene had to remind himself occasionally that the character he was playing was not, in fact, himself. 

 

***

"You've been with them for two weeks, Gene."

"I bloody well know that, don't I?"

"Yes, but... why aren't we arresting them?"

Gene sighed, a bone-deep ache where the telephone receiver pressed against his skull, as if by main force he could bring Sam into his personal space, into his head, into his arms. Gene's temples throbbed with the haze of last night's drinking, the early morning, not enough coffee or tea on his way to this telephone box, and the sense of disconnect as he strained to hear Sam's low tones through the faint static on the line. "Closed-mouthed bastard. Carl won't spill any beans, gets testy when I ask. We've had so many punch-ups, I could go for a prize fighter. He tells me things, has me go to the bank, then to the jewelers. Tomorrow I'm supposed to patrol the docks. If we bring him in, he's not going to talk, and none of the other scum know anything. They're all lackeys."

"Surely there's something we could bang them up for. What about that shooting?"

"I know we suspect he did it, but we have no evidence, Sam."

"You're turning into me."

"Just so long as you don't return the favor, I guess I'm OK with that."

There was a huff of breath, laughter from Sam, and then silence for a moment. Gene shifted in the phone booth, scanning the pale street outside, his stomach churning with nervous energy. "I need him to tell me," he said at last. "I need to know. Until he says, he could be planning anything. He could have hired me for anything. I know what we think, he's a bad 'un right enough. But we want to put him away, Sam. We don't want to send him back to London with a slap on the wrist."

"I know. You still havent--"

Gene groaned. "Bloody hell, what do you want from me? I'm going to get him. I'm so close, I've got him in my pocket. Unless you got something from Brian, or the lazy sods in London dug up some more information, it's Carl or nothing. If I'm with him long enough--"

"The penny will drop and he'll kill you. Are you being careful, Gene?"

"My own mother wouldn't let me in if I showed up on her doorstep, just now. Ray would toss me in the cells. No one knows who I am, Sammy-boy."

"I'm not questioning that. I--"

"You're pushing me. Stop it." He didn't enjoy long-distance sniping at Sam; he wanted to have his hands fisted in Sam's shirt, he wanted to watch the flecks of his own spittle land on Sam's face. Intimate. Real.

"Just get what you need. And then give me what I need. And then come home."

Gene couldn't muster the energy for a sarcastic retort. The suppressed yearning in Sam's voice said everything he couldn't articulate, himself, how much he wanted his daily routine back. His own people. His team, his office, his bottle of scotch. "I want to, Sammy."

There was a long silence, Sam's breath uneven through the line. "Fuck... just don't get hurt."

"Remember who you're talking to. The Gene Genie can handle this."

***

"Be careful with it," Carl advised as he pressed a pistol into Geordie's sweating hands.

Geordie looked as though he should have been told to just keep the safety on and the gun tucked away in his trousers. His breath came faster and the sweat stains under his armpits seemed to grow visibly. Sometimes Gene thought of these men as children, in the same way that he thought of Chris, back at CID. Helpless little things, needing guidance, a firm hand. It didn't make sense on some level; they were grown men, and they weren't even his, they were Carl's. And yet. Half a lifetime of habit, he couldn't turn it off, just like he couldn't deny the sick knowledge that he was helping them commit a crime.

Gene slipped his own gun under the back of his jacket and rubbed his palms against his hips. Yes, he was nervous, too. There was no time; no time to think, no time to plan, no time to slip away to warn Sam. Unless--it all depended on where they were going. There was a public phone box not far from the Barclays, and yet they had cased a jewelers and several other stores in the same general area within the last week. There might be an opportunity.

The time had bloody well come, and here he was hamstrung, unable to make any move to derail the operation unless he could slip away from Carl's all-knowing gaze. The breakfast dishes were washed, the flat was tidy, the men were ready for the action they had been waiting on for weeks, and all he could think was how poorly he had planned this out, in the end.

"Are we all driving together?" he asked Carl, quietly. There were seven of them, a tight squeeze if they were traveling in the Morris, comfortable but possibly more obvious if Carl opted for the battered van that had made an occasional appearance over the past weeks. So much that Gene still didn't understand about how this group operated. So much he should have learned.

"You'll drive the Morris, with Geordie and Frank. I'll take the rest. You're ready, yeah?" Carl made eye contact, deliberately, one hand clasping Gene's shoulder. 

"Yeah. And meet you where?"

"Corner of Cross and Market."

"Right."

There was nothing more to say. Action, or not. Decisions to be made. Responses. Gene huffed a breath, checked the pistol again, and gestured for Geordie and Frank to follow.

***

It was Barclays Bank, after all.

Gene parked the Morris around the corner, watched Carl and the other four men hopping out of the white van half a block down the street. Shite, no time to make a phone call, no way to do anything.

"We go in fast," Carl announced as they gathered by the kerb. "You know the plan." 

He could--he could be sick, but no, too late for that. He could go in first--but Mackie and Frank were on point. Carl was following everyone up; there was no place to be unobserved, no time to whisper in someone's ear. Gene's stomach churned.

Mackie and Frank marched around the corner, and Carl gave Gene a push. "Well, go on then. We haven't got all day." Gene shot him a glance. A little smile on his face, as if robbing a bank was a joke. Cool as a cucumber, a real professional of a criminal, this one. Not as though that was news. Hard man, mean man.

"All right, Geordie, let's go." 

Gene walked around the corner, warm limestone block, the sun slanting down the street making everything look newer than it really was, an innocence to it all. What could he do? Run away, down the street, let the robbery happen? He pushed the door open, entered the vestibule.

People were screaming.

Mackie and Frank were yelling typical criminal shite: "Get on the floor! Get on the fucking floor! I'll blow your head off!" Bank employees were shrieking, customers trying to get away, slip through the door, but that's where Gene and Geordie came in.

"Oh no you don't," Geordie growled, waving his pistol at an elderly couple.

Gene closed his eyes for just a moment in despair. Total chaos. Someone bound to be killed. Another shrieking cry, this one tinged with agony. A woman--Mackie had his arm around her neck--pale, blonde hair, fingers gone white on the sleeve of Mackie's jacket--and Gene watched the barrel of the pistol come to rest against her temple.

The world had gone still. Quiet. The shouts, screams, confused mutterings, all faded into the background. Gene took two quick steps, clearing the doorway, gaining an open corridor between himself and Mackie who was still backing toward the corner of the room. The man was yelling, spittle flying, muscles twitching in his gun arm, in the forearm half-bared. He'd done a shite job of shaving that morning, black stubble in patches at the crook of his jaw. 

"What are you doing?" Gene said, not yelling but forceful.

"What?" Mackie's face twisted, in scorn, in anger. There were volumes of intent to be read in his clenched brows, in the veins popping in his neck. In his arrogant posture. The bone of his wrist was tight against her neck, her hands clawing. "Bloody hell, mate, I'm--"

Before he could finish his sentence, Gene lifted his own pistol, aimed and pulled the trigger. A small, round hole appeared in Mackie's forehead. His eyes went wide, his arms slack. His pistol discharged into the floor, sending chips flying. The woman made a choking, animal noise and flung herself away from him.

For all he was primed for action, light on his feet, aware of everything, Gene stood staring into Mackie's eyes. There was still life in there, for a few moments. Mackie blinked. His mouth moved, trying to form words, and then he sagged to his knees. The gun was still in his hand. Gene fired a second shot, center of the chest, and blood spattered the wall.

And then something hit him from behind, stunningly hard, threw him off balance, right off his feet. His head bounced off the marble floor with a sound like a hammer on an anvil and it all went sparkly and dim, his hands seemingly no longer his own as he struggled under a heavy weight. 

"You're fucking dead, mate," someone hissed in his ear. He closed his eyes and nodded.


	8. Hang on to yourself - Taken

The pain.

The fucking pain in his fucking head.

Vague impressions. Yelling. Being dragged to his feet. More yelling. Gunshots and lights and being pushed, running, half-carried. Door slammed and tyres screamed. The van, he recognized, as he rolled across the floor and slammed up against the wall. A renewed explosion of sparks behind his eyes. An eternity or fifteen minutes of mad driving through the streets, punctuated by squealing turns and cursing. Carl at the wheel, Geordie and Frank and Pete in the back, no opportunity to open the doors and leap out even if Gene had been able to muster the strength and the force of will.

He passed out, or somehow time went by without him noticing.

Rough hands woke him.

Fingers digging in hard, dragging him stumbling from the van through a dirty grey door into a dark, dusty space that stank of fish and something worse, flashlights suddenly flaring, bouncing off distant walls and steel barrels piled twice man-high. The fucking pain in his fucking head. Geordie and Frank, holding him harder than they needed to, given that he was making no trouble. They each tied a rope around a wrist, focused and angry. Then they stepped back and hauled hard, and he was jerked upward, toes just brushing the ground, an involuntary sound of protest escaping him.

"That's good."

A match flared, and then an old-fashioned gas lantern. It cast shadows on Carl's gaunt face.

"Didn't want to be rich after all, Henry?"

Gene spat. 

Carl turned his back, walked away, taking the light and the men with him.

 

***

 

Sam opened the door and stepped into the foyer of Barclays Bank, letting the door swing shut behind him. He could hear voices inside, accompanied by the occasional wail. He moved into the bank, his heels clicking on the marble floor.

The scent of blood, newly spilled, mingled with the smell of sweat. There was blood on the wall, the floor. It was smeared by a heel, or, perhaps, a knee, as if someone had stumbled or been sent careening wildly through it.

The abandoned cashiers' windows were on the left; there was a counter next to them with deposit slips and other papers, most of which had sailed underneath, making a new pattern on the marble. To the right there were chairs for eight people. Three of them were toppled like statues. There was a bleached-blond woman seated in one of the chairs, her handbag in her lap.

Ray was standing by the counter, talking with Chris and Annie. He looked across the room at Sam and strolled over.

“No weapon found, Boss.” He nodded at the woman. “If you want to have a talk, she's the one was held hostage before that one got shot,” he said, indicating the body on the floor. Someone had covered the dead man with a coat. “Mrs. Wendy Watson.”

“Get everyone else's statements then let them go. I'll take Mrs. Watson. And see that he gets to the morgue. These people have seen enough. Okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Sam moved away. He smiled and held out his warrant card. “I'm Detective Inspector Tyler.” Sam could see she was shaken. “I'm sorry to intrude, Mrs. Watson,” he said gently as he put his badge away, “but I'd like to find the man who did this. Do you mind if I sit down?”

“No, of course not,” she replied quietly. She pulled her handbag closer. Her hand was trembling slightly.

He sat down next to her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes ...”

He bent forward to hear what she was saying.

She started to sob. She reached into her bag and pulled out a tissue. “I'm ... fine, thank you,” she said firmly, dabbing her eyes with it.

“Why did he grab you, do you know?”

“I don't know,” she admitted, checking the tissue then crushing it in her hand. “It happened so suddenly and quickly. There was a lot of confusion. I think he rather liked making people frightened.”

“Can you tell me more about him?”

“He had one hand around my neck, a gun against my head. He seemed desperate, not a professional bank robber.”

“The person who murdered him has, I believe, killed several others. If he isn't stopped, the killing will continue.”

“But you're wrong, Inspector. He was trying to help. He wasn't like the other men.”

“In what way?”

“I could see it in his eyes.”

“You saw him clearly?”

“Oh, yes. Very clearly.” She closed her eyes. “Bullish and blond. Commanding. With a soft spot for women in distress.”

Sam straightened up in his chair. His palms began to sweat. “Damn. And he's forgotten that he promised to come home,” he said softly.

“You know him?”

“I'm acquainted with someone like him,” Sam replied. It seemed to satisfy her.

“I don't dare think about what they're going to do with him. One of the men--I think he was in charge--knocked him to the floor. Cracked his head. I can tell you exactly what he said to him. I'll never forget it. “You're dead.” Contempt for him and everybody else. Dangerous, that one.”

Sam tried to pull himself together. He stood up abruptly and looked over at Ray, who was nodding as he listened to a cashier. “Ray!”

Ray turned round, and walked over to Sam. “What's wrong, Boss?”

“We've got a hostage situation.”

Ray looked at him as if he'd gone mental. “Bloody hell!”

“The hostage is Gene.” Sam swallowed hard. “Reynolds took him. We need to get moving. Get Annie and Chris to talk to everyone on the street, organise door-to-doors. Someone must have seen them leave. Which way they went. Set up roadblocks. We've got to stop him.”

Ray stared at him, his eyes blazing. Sam glanced around the bank. Chris and Annie were having a word with witnesses, taking notes.

“Jesus, is everyone here just standing around!” Sam snapped.

Chris and Annie broke off their conversations and turned to look at him.

The surprise slid from Ray's face and his expression became sullen. “On my way, Boss,” he said, with an edge to his words.

Sam waved a hand at the door. “I need to--I'm going out for some air.” He walked off. “No, no, no,” he muttered, coming face to face with Jackie Queen as he emerged into the sunshine. The reporter hadn't wasted any time. The last thing he needed. “Oh, good,” Sam said, with a touch of irony.

“Just doing my job, DI Tyler,” Jackie replied, as she got out her notebook, the sunlight flashing off her perfectly painted nails. “Why don't you tell me something about the robbery? The shot that was fired, killing another robber? The hostage that was taken from the scene?”

“You're well informed, Jackie.”

“You know how it is. But, I've got a deadline to meet. You're looking for them now, aren't you, guns loaded?”

“We're focusing on the hostage, yes.”

“Who is it? Who's the hostage?”

He gave her a hesitant smile. “I can verify that he was the shooter.”

Jackie gave him a searching look. “Something's not right.” She softened her tone. “Just tell me what happened, Sam.”

He blinked at her use of his first name and pressed his hand to the back of his neck. Her eyes widened briefly as she waited for his answer. “That's not the way it works,” he murmured softly, dropping his arm. “Sorry, Jackie. We're still making inquiries. Just be patient and we'll have something for you.”

“Is DCI Hunt with you? There are one or two things I'd like to ask him.”

 _Christ_. Sam shook his head, straight-faced and making an effort to sound sincere. “He's gone down South. Covering all the angles. He's due back in a few days.” His eyes swept the reporter's face but she didn't appear to be suspicious. He could only hope that she couldn't read his thoughts. Gene. Somewhere in the city. With blaggers who weren't yet privy to his secret. And would Gene's quick wit help him hang on until Sam could find him or would it get him killed?

 

*****

 

The police station's lift came to a stop and the doors opened. Sam and Ray exited, stiff and uncommunicative, neither one feeling like talking. Superintendent Rathbone was waiting for them in the doorway of his office.

“DI Tyler, DS Carling, my office now,” he said as he headed back inside.

“Every man for himself,” Ray muttered. They moved reluctantly into the room as if they were fish being pulled slowly on a line.

The Super stood behind his desk, the picture of himself glaring down at them from its place on the wall above his head. It mirrored the expression on his face. He indicated the two empty chairs. “Please close the door behind you and take a seat.” When both men were seated, he turned his attention to Sam and tossed a copy of The Gazette at him. Its headline was ARMED BANK ROBBERS ON THE RUN, and in smaller type below, Killer takes hostage. “Is it him, Tyler?”

Sam wasn't sure who _him_ was. Gene? Reynolds? “Sir?”

Rathbone tapped his finger on the newspaper. “Is it Carl Reynolds, and his gang again?”

“Yes, Sir. And Gene is their prisoner. It should never have happened. But he's our priority--”

“I make the decisions about priorities around here.”

“Well, obviously, our duty is to Gene,” Sam challenged, getting to his feet.

Rathbone raised his eyebrow. “Sit down, Inspector,” he ordered, his voice cold. “We're all under stress right now, but that's not an excuse for insubordination. You don't talk back to me, and you do what I tell you. Do you understand?”

 _Bugger_. Sam nodded. “Yes ... Sir.”

“That's good to hear.” Rathbone's eyes passed from Sam to Ray, then narrowed. “Carling?”

“Hell, yes,” Ray replied hurriedly. “I do what I'm ordered.”

“DCI Hunt walked into this office and asked for the assignment, with my approval. By doing so, he accepted the risk. With the eye of the press on us, our first job is to find Reynolds. I want that villain off the streets.

"Get out there and bring me Carl Reynolds. Don't let me down,” the Superintendent finished, giving them a wave of dismissal.

As they walked down the corridor, Sam seized Ray by the front of his shirt. “Whose side are you on, Ray?” he asked softly. “That stiff-necked, old--?”

“You don't have to ask.” Ray looked back at him, calm and unblinking. “I'm on his side--the Guv's.”

Sam dropped his hand, releasing him. “Okay. Right … I'm sorry.”

“Do you think he is dead, Sir?”

 _Rathbone's convinced Gene is already dead_. A sudden squeezing pain struck Sam's heart. Sam didn't want to accept it, wouldn't accept it. And he wouldn't let Ray take it as truth either.

“He'll be all right. And it's down to us to see that he gets home.”

 

***

 

The worst thing was the conversation with Carl.

Gene thought of it as a conversation, later, mulling it over in his head, replaying and imagining other ways it might have gone. In his head it was the sort of thing that went down in Lost and Found, threats of violence and cigarette smoke and triumph in the end. Problem was, the roles were reversed. It was about Carl venting his rage, the threat of violence against Gene's person rather than the other way around. Which was fine. He would have welcomed the contact. It was the sort of communication he expected, given the circumstances, and his body was ready for it, thrumming with pain and urgency and the expectation of a punchup. But instead he got words, pacing, dark room, bright lights and the unending ache of his own shoulders and wrists.

"You." Carl's face inches from his own, those narrow grey eyes, the lined, gaunt cheeks. "Who do you bloody think you are?"

Gene pursed his lips, said nothing.

"I'm talking to you, Williams. Or whatever your name is." Carl stalked away, casting distorted shadows on the distant walls, fumbled with some items on a table. The clink of metal. The weird electrical stink of the floodlights they had hauled in and set up facing him, the peculiar background odor and the smell of his own fear-sweat, all of it together with the echoes of strange sounds in the vast, dark warehouse made him shrink inside of himself. Not in a Gene Genie sort of way, but like when he was a boy, when his mam had taken herself to bed leaving him downstairs with dad. That helped, thinking about what he did as a boy. Turning fear into rage. Stowing it away. Not hard at all to work up a little rage, just think of the blond woman's face, there at the bank, or how much these thugs deserved to be put away for good.

Carl loomed close again, showing Gene a knife. It was a bastard big blade, some kind of hunting knife. Made for slicing. "We'll make your life a bloody hell, man. What made you do it?"

"Bloke liked to hurt women," Gene slurred.

Carl snorted. "That's it?"

"Poor impulse control. Couldn't help meself."

The shape of Carl's eyebrows shifted wildly; the shapes of disbelief, rage, anger. How much there was to read in his unemotional, Germanic face.

"You--bloody hell, Henry, is that really your line? You're going to joke about this?"

"I never liked 'im."

Carl's face lashed out, caught Gene a blow with his knuckles and the hilt of the knife--a flash of white behind his eyes and he was afraid something might have broken. His cheek was numb with it, his eye blurry with tears.

"He needed to go," he mouthed, hoping Carl could understand his words. It was the truth about how he felt, of course, but not the whole truth. The moment Carl got that out of him he was dead.

Carl leaned in close, fisted his hands in the lapels of Gene's shirt and heaved him another inch off the floor. It would have been a physical relief were it not for the knife, the blade angled up against Gene's chin. "I thought we were on the same page, mate." Carl's voice was quiet, almost sorrowful. "I thought I could trust you. There's something more, isn't there, Henry? Something you want to say to me?"

Gene worked his tongue around inside his mouth, trying to taste if there was blood. Maybe. "Did you a favor," he croaked at last.

"I never saw this coming, and I'm a fair judge of a man. Thing is, I just don't see what this gains you. You're a puzzle piece, Henry, and I think there's something you might unlock if I can just figure out how to use you. I thought you wanted to be used; I thought you were mine. But..." He dropped his eyes, eased off his hold on Gene's shirt. "You're not."

"Yours as much as anyone's," he answered, and it was true as he didn't belong to anyone, at least in the sense Carl meant.

Carl gave him another look, at arm's length. His face wore its habitual lack of expression. "I almost believe you."

Yeah, and that's where he had Carl. He'd been convincing, as a criminal. It gave him an edge, one that he might be able to exploit enough to stay alive until Sam could find him. "I'm telling you, I did the right thing. Mackie was--"

"Shut it. Mackie was one of us."

Gene rolled his eyes. "Mackie was no team player. In it for himself."

Carl snorted in derision, made a grand gesture with his knife hand but didn't seem to have the words to continue. "You--I--I'm actually speechless, Henry. I'm genuinely at a lack for words in the face of your continued certainty of your own worth. You really believe you did me a favor, don't you? Are you this kind of nutter, rather than the yellow, squealing Judas you seem to be?"

"You think I turned on you."

"I know you did. Which is why I have you bound up here while I decide if you deserve to live."

"You don't know sodding shite, if you think Mackie was yours. Mad as a hatter. He was going to kill, and right soon."

Another snort of disbelief. "You can't show me that, Henry. You can't prove a thing as you conveniently removed him from the picture."

"Ask around, mate. Ask Geordie. Ask anyone if Mackie was a loyal bastard. They'll all say he was about as true as a crooked nail."

"What does that make you, eh? The fucking hammer what pounded Mackie home?"

Laughing made things hurt more, but Gene just couldn't help it, the chuckles burbling out of him. "Very like," he gasped.

"Oh, funny. This is rich." Carl paced away, fast steps, angry, then back again. "Fuck you. You messed it all up for me, Henry."

"You think that bank job was going to go your way, you're an even bigger idiot than Mackie."

Carl did a slow burn with his eyes, all menace and swagger as he swayed closer, frustration rolling off him. Gene matched him with the eyes, though it was passing hard to project anything with his arms going numb and his toes just brushing the floor. "I'll knock that attitude out of you," Carl hissed, "and you'll break. Sooner or later, you'll spill all you've got. If there's anything worth having in there."

He made a dismissive gesture. Geordie and Frank closed in, and there was no mistaking the meaning of their gleeful grins. "Oi, mate," grunted Geordie as he delivered a short punch to Gene's belly, "I don't care for the way you did Mackie."

Frank took a turn, fists thudding into Gene's flesh, and then Geordie delivered a slap to Gene's face that rocked his head back.

"Make a sodding noise, why don't you?" he whined. His pig eyes bored into Gene's, questing, questioning.

"I've seen your balls," Gene grunted. "Almost needed a microscope, but I've seen 'em. Don't know what there is to make a noise about."

"Fuck!" Geordie make an urgent, imperative gesture, and Frank turned to grab something from the table. Short lengths of garden hose, long enough to get some momentum, whistle through the air, thwack against Gene's ribs with stinging force. They worked themselves into a sweat, beating him, and after a time it was just one more noise, layered over the buzzing in his ears and the numbness of his wrists.

He eventually gave them some satisfaction, grunting or gasping at the blows. Geordie switched from the hose to a short length of pipe, and Gene's range of noises became broader. More interesting, at least to his own ears... probably to Geordie's as well, based on the bastard big grin on his face. Fuck. Harder to turn off the pain. Harder to keep from anticipating the next thudding impact, afraid of broken bones. Fuck, what was a broken bone to him anyway? They healed in time, didn't they? Tried not to think about people he had known; old Tommy, back in National Service, ankle healed crooked, permanent limp. But Frank and Geordie didn't seem to care about Gene's knees, nor ankles either. Just the ribs, the belly. Shoulders. 

The pipe hit the middle of his chest, noise like a hammer against a melon, and he felt a pop. Struggled to draw another breath, wheezing like an asthmatic, like the old men chain-smoking down by the quay, didn't know it could hurt so much to breathe. 

"Leave him. Leave him!"

The noises were scary, terrifying. The odd rasping echoing through his chest when he drew breath, the involuntary whine at the lightning stab of pain. "Hnnn, hnnn, hnnn," he went, trying to breathe slower, trying to balance on his toes.

It was a standoff, dark silhouettes against the floodlights, Gene pinned like a fly before them.

There.

Calming. Breathing a bit easier. Surviving. Chest pain easing, making way for the ribs, the wrists.

"What--" he gasped, tried not to cough. "Hnnn. What's next, sunshine? Break my nose?"

Carl's footsteps echoed, a counterpoint to Gene's labored breathing. He stopped a few feet away, produced a pack of Marlboro's, tapped one out and lit it. Yearning layered itself over the pain like a blanket. Gene grimaced, tried not to beg.

His resolve lasted only until the first whiff of smoke reached his nostrils. "Oi, just a drag, mate..."

Carl snorted, but held the ciggie so Gene could take a puff.

"Gonna leave you to think about things for a while, Williams," he said wearily.

"What do you--want me to--think about? Your lovely face? What to make for brekkie tomorrow morning? City's chances next year?"

"Whether you have anything to tell me. Any reason to keep you alive."

"Piss off."

"Well then. Gag him. Don't need him screaming the place down while we're gone."

They weren't gentle about it. Some kind of nasty, oily cloth, tied so tightly around his head his jaws started an immediate ache, making it almost impossible to get air through his mouth. The steadily building pressure of his shoulders, the burning fading to numbness in his wrists, where the ropes bit deeply, the layering of bruises over his ribs and spine, the ridiculous effort to maintain an airway through his swollen nose kept him aware and struggling even after the four men trooped out of the room, turned off the light and closed the door.

He imagined tearing himself free and racing off into the night. He imagined smashing his fist into Carl's face until it was unrecognizable. He replayed the shooting in his head, again and again, watching the hole appear in Mackie's forehead. Strange. So very strange. The way the light went out of his eyes. How slow it seemed. It was slower every time he imagined it, until he closed his eyes against the black of the echoing space and tried to think of something better.

Sam. The brown of his eyes, the ridiculous nap of his hair. The lanky length of him. The way his breath quickened when he stripped off his shirt. The curve of his arse--

He passed an hour or more reciting every swear word he could think of, and making up some new ones into the bargain. "Sheep-buggering lilly-livered cock-swallower" gave him some pleasure for a while.

He had to piss.

The sky grew dark, then black, outside the row of small, square windows high up on the wall. The air was chill. His sweat cooled and dried. He shivered, groaned, tried to take a little weight on his toes. It hurt too much to slump back onto his wrists. His chest throbbed where the pipe had struck him.

Sam. Oh bloody hell, Sam.

An hour or two later he pissed himself, absurdly pleased with the relief and the warmth of the wetness pouring down his leg.

***

 

Killer takes hostage. Sam crumpled the newspaper into a ball and tossed it into the bin. He leaned against the worktop, and sighed. He could hear the television, the news anchor summarising the late night news.

“Manchester and Salford Police have launched a major investigation to try to locate a gang of robbers who attempted to rob Barclays Bank. Police have refused to comment on a man, who has not been named, who disappeared during that botched robbery attempt, but they are stressing that--”

Sam slammed his hand down on the worktop. Christ, he needed a drink. He searched his cupboard, finding the unopened bottle of scotch at the back where Gene had stashed it. He took it out, pouring a small amount slowly into a tumbler, then tipped his head back and swallowed a mouthful. He drank steadily, pouring more whisky and taking shots.

What was left of the night was bound to be long. Sam paced, the drink in his hand, looking round the bed-sit, but he didn't really know what he was looking for. He felt worn out, sick. What had seemed entirely logical before the several shots of whisky now seemed irrational, a mistake. He had to find Gene, and, to do it properly, he needed to have a clear head.

He moved to the window. He squinted into the pane of glass, his left hand on the windowsill. He stared at the bottom of the street. Gene was supposed to be on a mission, but it had gone balls up; now, he was missing. Sam's gaze went past the two up, two down terraced houses and curry houses, to the city beyond. His eyes were drawn to a lone tower block, its windows lighted squares, rising up to the stars. “You're out there,” he said, softly. Could be anywhere. And he was on his own, suffering at the hands of Reynolds. Hang on, Gene. Hang on.

Sam turned, fighting tears, and saw the neatly-made single bed. He couldn't look at it without thinking about sleeping with Gene, and sex. The tangle of limbs, lubricated fingers. Teasing tongues. Knotted ties. Who's calling the shots … He got down on his knees, his fingers brushing the mattress. His head drooped and an animal noise tore out of him, the sorrow leaving him raw. He threw his glass, splashing the awful, flowered wallpaper with whisky.

“You were thinking about Gene, weren't you?”

Sam jerked his head round and jumped to his feet, his expression guilty. The girl from the test card was standing a short distance away, wearing her red dress and clutching her clown.

“Gene? Maybe,” he murmured. The clown's mouth was turned up in a knowing smile.

“He needs your help, Sam,” she said matter-of-factly.

Sam looked at the clown. The clown looked at him. It was simply a child's toy, but it was still staring at him. Suddenly, he was little Sammy Tyler, small and vulnerable, with nowhere to run. Bloody hell.

“Gene's not safe. But he's not afraid.”

Sam's heart knotted in his chest. “W-What's happening to him?”

“There's no escape, no way out. It's too dark and too cold.”

“Where is he?”

“Where rats pitter-patter over drums and leave tracks in the powder of bricks and mortar.”

Sam was confused. “Sorry?”

“In a long-forgotten place. A place of death and decay.”

She wasn't making sense. “Where?!” he yelled in frustration.

“He's very rude, isn't he?” she said to her clown. “Aren't we trying to help you, Sam?”

He heard the sound of the test card, the tone blaring from the television. The child was back inside it, playing a game of noughts and crosses. He closed his eyes tightly. He opened them again, turning away and crossing the flat in a few strides. He glanced back at the telly before slamming the door behind him.

 

***

 

Sam rounded the corner. There were lights burning in the squad room. Chris was seated alone at a desk, with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. His shoulders hunched, he had an arm wrapped around a file like a secondary school pupil who didn't want anyone to copy his work. Sam pulled up a chair next to him and sat down, his hands on his knees.

"I thought you'd gone home," Sam said.

"Hi, Boss. Never left." He sucked on the fag then crushed the end in the ashtray. "I've been thinking," he told Sam, giving him a smile. "I'm supposed to be slow. Mostly everyone makes a joke of it. I'm used to it. Reynolds, he's a proper clever bloke. So, I'm looking for whatever makes me smarter than he is."

Sam returned Chris' smile. "Excellent, Chris."

"Cheers. Only doing my job. Like you."

"How are you coming with your list of local properties? Did you find out anything about empty or abandoned buildings?"

"It's been tougher than I thought--there's loads, but I should have it by mid-morning. I'll give you the paperwork as soon as."

Sam put a hand on Chris' shoulder. "Go home. Get some rest."

"I will if you will, Boss."

Sam hesitated. She was there, and he didn't fancy another encounter. "As it happens, I plan to do some walking--and thinking. Like you."

 

***

 

An echoing bang jerked Gene to awareness and he made a noise, incoherent. It was morning, grey light pouring in the row of windows high on the wall. He heard voices echoing through the darkness, and then the click of a switch and the glare of the floodlights making his eyes burn.

"Good morning, sunshine," rasped Carl, somewhere out there past the lights and the tears flooding Gene's eyes.

Frank and Geordie were all gruff efficiency, cutting him down, moving him to a chair. His arms, unfeeling, his hands white and swollen, and he didn't even have time to get some movement back before they were tying him hand and foot to the chair. His shoulders began an ache that expanded in an instant to full-blown agony. Carl, grim-faced, took up a position directly in front of him.

"Who do you work for?"

"Who did you phone, that day at the bank?"

"Where did you go after the pub?"

"Where do your mates live? Got a wife?"

"Why'd you kill him?"

Gene let the questions roll off him, too far gone in the bliss/agony of not hanging from his wrists to care about the chair or the rope. Hunger made him cramp, but it was so much less worrisome than the disturbing ache in his chest, shot through with stabs of pain. He'd slept. He would sleep more now, if they'd let him, if he wasn't so thirsty, if the haze of smoke in the room didn't keep making him twitch and jerk and hurt. He could ignore questions with the best of them, thicker skin than the average motorbike jacket, and there was a reason--an important reason--to keep it all to himself.

Yeah. Wait. It was--

"We'll find out who you've worked with, Henry." Carl leaned down, at eye level, icy and serious. "Don't think for a moment we won't."

"Piss off." He licked his dry lips.

"You live and work here, man. You're a Manc; other Mancs are bound to know you, they'll tell us all about you and then where'll you be?"

"Could it be worse than having to look at your face all day? Ugly as a donkey's arse."

Geordie gave him ten seconds to sweat, then pried his little finger up from its death grip on the chair and snapped it back.

Gene screamed, short and involuntary, then snorted breaths through his nose so fast and desperate he sounded like a beast, like a panting dog or--or what? Something else, something far away, something stronger than this.

"Fuck, Henry. Why don't you just tell me what I want to know?" Carl sounded despairing, almost. Genuinely sorry for having to hurt him.

Gene shook drenched strands of hair out of his eyes, blinked fiercely until Carl's face came into focus. "'S my life," he growled. "Keep your filthy mitts out o' it."

"Hold your life in my hands, don't I? You won't give me a word to spare it?"

Gene snorted quick breaths, ignoring the lights, the smells, the stinging layers of agony and discomfort. A vision of Sam, running in the door, guns blazing. How much longer could he put them off with stubbornness and vinegar? Why wasn't Sam here yet? Hadn't he said, at some point, something to Sam about warehouses or docks or some such. Should have led him here already.

Why. Why the bloody, stinking hell wasn't the picky pain bastard here already?

"Carl," he gasped. "I did my best. Couldn't stand him anymore. Tried to--help you. I did."

"I always thought it was a front. Suspected it."

"No. It was me. Just--me."

"No one's as good as that. Why aren't you working for yourself?"

Gene tried to focus. How was he supposed to answer? "Piss off. Work for you if I want."

"If. If you work for me you answer my questions. There are things I need to know before I leave Manchester. Things you need to tell me. What are you trying to set up here, mate? Why stay with us for two weeks? If you were a rat, would've turned by now. I just don't understand you."

"Why--'re you still here then?"

Carl raised an eyebrow. "Came here to do some jobs. Prefer not to leave before I'm done."

"More--than just--the bank job?"

"Yeah. There's money for the taking, and Manchester's no London."

"What's that mean?" Gene felt a vague wash of righteous indignation.

"Well." Carl sat down in the chair facing Gene's, hands on his knees. "Coppers haven't exactly been hot on our trail, have they?" There was a snide satisfaction to his tone, the kind that made Gene want to tell him just how close the local constabulary had been all along. The desire to wipe the grin off his face, replace it with shock, anger, maybe even fear. But fear of what? One heavily pummeled DCI tied hand and foot to a chair, hoping his DI would be riding to the rescue any moment now? Grow another one, Hunt.

"Piss off. You don't know bleeding Manchester."

"Starting to wonder how well you know it. You're such a puzzle to me. Maybe you really are a smart man who made one very stupid mistake. But--" he fished out a fag and lit it, eyes hooded as he took the first, deep drag, "if there's nothing more to you, this is it. No reason to keep you alive."

Carl reversed the cigarette, cold eyes calculating as he scanned Gene's face. Gene hoped for another puff of the fag, the momentary joy of a nicotine rush, but Carl flipped the cigarette and pressed the lit end down against the tender skin between Gene's thumb and forefinger.

"Fuck!"

Laughter. Harsh, crowlike. His own hiss of pain, the chair rocking as he twisted against the ropes.

Carl's huge hand lashed out, a hard blow to the face, lights exploding behind Gene's eyes. His face felt numb and distant. There were voices, a chatter that he couldn't distinguish from the roaring in his ears. Approaching footsteps, shadows moving, and then...

"Oi! Fancy meeting you here, Detective Chief Inspector!"

Gene stared up with astounded disbelief into the face of one Michael Kenney, small-time crook; put away on occasion for theft, or assault, and on at least two occasions put away by Gene Hunt, himself.

 

***

 

"We need to snuff him, boss, and we need to do it now."

"Oi. Who makes the decisions around here?"

"Let's dump him in the canal and get the bleeding fuck out of bleeding Manchester!"

"E's a valued member of the local police, mate. They're gonna tear the town apart, looking for him. You'd best act fast."

Gene rolled his eyes and croaked, "Michael. I'll put you away too, you say another word."

"Shut it!" Geordie lashed out, gun in hand, and he wasn't holding back. The explosion of pain tossed Gene's head to the side, rocked him in the chair. Somehow his ear hurt worse than anything. Maybe because it hadn't been touched until now. He would have held a tender hand over it if he could. Instead he shook it off, swearing under his breath, rolled his head around on his shoulders until he was sure it was there.

"The bleedin' DCI!" whined Geordie on a rising note. "They've had us under surveillance all along! They're probably on the way here right now, with dogs an' everything!"

"Shut yer bastard big mouth," Carl commanded. "If they knew where he was they'd have been here yesterday. They'd have nicked us at the bank. They don't know, not yet anyway. The question remains, do we kill him now or do we run?"

Frank coughed. "You asking our opinions, boss?"

"No. Let me think."

He walked, the length of the room and back, finishing one cigarette and starting another. Gene watched the smoke rise, coiling upwards and expanding into ghostly layers in the wan light from the row of windows. It was all starting to feel a bit distant, now. Cold. All the pains were a blanket wrapping him up, protecting him from the men, from their noise and their smoke. What he wouldn't give for a flask of whisky.

"Blaggers," he muttered. "You think you'll get away with it." His own voice sounded strange, sluggish and garbled.

"It's different now. Before, he'd just be another small-time crook turned up dead in the canal. Now, he's important. They find him, they'll be after us like fleas on a dog. They won't let us go, they find him dead. But, we leave him alive and he tells them everything he knows. No doubt about that. So." Carl stared into Gene's face, calculating. "We cut him up small, put him somewhere they'll never find him."

 

***

 

Sam looked around him from his perch on the edge of the table. Annie sat with a notebook on her lap and a pencil in her right hand. Chris was biting his bottom lip. Ray stood in the middle of the CID room, his chest puffed out like a cockerel giving another cock (Sam) the impression he was a larger size. The other two Sergeants were settled in chairs, their sleeves rolled up and their feet pushed out in front of them, like twins. Cigarettes dangled from their fingers, identical strands of smoke rising from the fags and swirling around their heads like fog.

“Good morning,” Sam began.

“Who says?” someone mumbled in a low voice.

Sam glanced around, surprised, but everyone was staring at him innocently in silence. He could hear his watch ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. “Look. DCI Hunt'll come out okay.” He hoped desperately that he was right. That time wasn't running out. That Gene was still alive.

Annie smiled at him; it was warm and friendly, and something hollow inside of him was filled, relieving the tension. Sam smiled back at her and leaned forward. “Now, what have we got? Ray, you go first.”

Ray moved through the room like he was strutting through a hen yard. He took his place next to Sam. “Everyone has been interviewed, and those witness statements have been sorted and analysed. All movements have been accounted for and verified.

"All seven blaggers, including the Guv, were in Barclays. They all had guns with them. Two of the men made customers in the queue lay on the floor. Two others stood in front of the entrance doors to keep anyone from making their way in or out; the heavier of the two, the Guv, was different from the rest. Never made a fuss, was cool, even when the deceased went ape-shit and he had to shoot him through the head.”

“Thank you, Ray. Annie?”

The constable glanced briefly at her notes. “Interviews from the street revealed there were two vehicles, a brown Morris Marina, number plate GLG 341K, and a white panel van. We have a partial number plate; it was registered here in Manchester.”

“Probably nicked here, and all,” Sam said. “Do we know what direction they headed after they left the bank?”

“West on Chapel, Sir,” Annie replied.

"Went to Salford, possibly Trafford Park ..." Sam concluded.

"Must have done."

“Good work, Annie. Chris, you've been phoning round to check out those abandoned buildings. Do you have that list for me?”

“Right here, Boss.”

Chris left his chair and held out the pages. His eyes were wide, watching Sam as if he was expecting him to do something extraordinary. Sam felt a twinge of guilt. Knackered. He was too knackered. He rubbed the stubble on his chin then took them, glancing down at Chris' notes. “Well done,” he said absently.

Sam scanned the list, making it to the second page, then got no further.

Fisher's Warehouse  
No. 6 Dock, Manchester Docks, Salford

Brick and timber, damaged by fire in 1971. Partly demolished. Where rats pitter-patter over drums and leave tracks in the powder of bricks and mortar. And Gene had said Reynolds had him patrolling the docks. “Fisher's,” he repeated slowly. “My God. Bingo!”

“I prefer poker myself,” Chris responded.

“Bloody-Nora. It's the Guv, isn't it? You know where he is,” Ray answered. “I can tell by the look on your face.”

Adrenalin rushed through Sam's bloodstream, mixed with relief, happiness. Fear. “Number six dock.”

"What if you're wrong?" Ray asked.

Sam drew back his shoulders. "I'm not." And if he was (please, no), then it was too late any road. Reynolds wins and Gene's dead. “Tool us up, Ray! Get armed backup! Now!" He pulled on his jacket.

_I'm coming to get you, Gene._

 

***

 

Sam made a right, burying the accelerator pedal into the Cortina's footwell. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He turned right again, insanely, to the Salford Quays, barely touching the brake pedal, the car's engine roaring. He approached Fisher's car park, his mind hanging on to hope. He saw the entrance and slammed his foot on the brake, the tyres spinning. It wasn't hidden from view, but it wasn't easily seen from the door of the warehouse either.

He and Ray climbed out, guns drawn, and watched as Chris, Annie and the others arrived in a Zephyr along with several panda cars, their lights flashing but sirens silent. Everyone piled out, guns and torches ready.

“Carl Reynolds,” Sam said. “Watch him, he's dangerous. But our top priority is getting Gene back. Alive. We keep our heads clear, we can do this. Come on.”

Sam jogged across the car park, his breaths short puffs of air. He was so close to finding Gene, and, yet, not close enough. He approached the building quickly but carefully. The battered white van was parked next to the warehouse, squeezed into a passageway between it and another building. Sam shone his torch into the ginnel, but both it and the vehicle appeared to be empty.

There was no sign of life around the warehouse. Sam looked up. A row of windows. Fixed, dirty. They wouldn't be seen by anyone inside. A grey door. The only way in or out.

“Boss?”

Sam stopped and turned. Ray looked back at him grimly, dark circles under his eyes, showing the strain he was under. Sam placed his arm on Ray's sleeve. “You ready?”

Ray nodded. They moved forward, slipping swiftly inside, torches shining. It was cold. Sam shivered. Stale, dusty air mixed with lingering cigarette smoke caught in the back of his throat, making him want to cough, but he swallowed hard, keeping it back. He hit something with his boot, and, as he bent over to look, realised that it was a dead rat. He stepped over it and kept moving. Let him be alive. No celestial voice answered him; in fact, there was no voice at all, until he heard,

“We cut him up small, put him somewhere they'll never find him.”

“Go on, cut his throat.”

 _Jesus_. Suddenly, everything was going wrong. Hairs stood up on the back of Sam's neck. “Go! Go!” he shouted, terrified. He dropped the torch, gripped his gun firmly in his hand, and started running. Footsteps thundered behind him. Then there were bright lights everywhere.

There he is!

Reynolds froze, startled, then Sam heard him laugh. The knife blade flashed as he pressed it deep against Gene's neck. His eyes burning, Sam saw trickling blood. Reynolds grinned.

No! He couldn't let him win! Sam fired, the blast hurting his ears, making them ring. The blagger grunted, then stumbled before crashing to the floor in a knot of limbs. Sam was aware of frenzied shouting, the crack of gunshots, a bullet whizzing past his left ear. He dropped to the floor, on one knee, waiting for more shots--but there were none.

He saw Ray hurrying toward him. “Ray, radio for an ambulance!” Sam yelled. He stood up, staggering a little.

Gene. Tied to a chair, drenched with sweat.

Bastard. Fucking, bloody, bastard Reynolds.

Gene's pale skin smeared with blood, slashed, bruised. Circular burns. Breath whistling through his broken nose. His left eye partially closed.

Bastard.

Sam's arms and fingers tingled. If he didn't breathe, he was going to suffocate. Breaths. Take deep, slow breaths, Tyler.

His fingers fumbled at the knots of Gene's bonds. “Gene, it's me,” he choked out.

Gene didn't answer. Didn't move. He sat there, slumped forward, chin resting on his chest.

Please, don't die! Oh, God, what was he going to do?

“On its way,” Ray told Sam as he returned. He stood there, at Sam's side. “How is he, then?” he whispered.

Sam didn't answer. He didn't know himself.

Sam slipped his hands over Gene's large swollen ones, holding on to them. “Gene?”

Bile burned in his throat, and he swallowed it down, but it didn't go away, setting his stomach on fire. His mouth filled with saliva. Don't be sick, don't be sick.

Sam leaned into Gene and stroked his head. “Gene. Talk to me,” he said into his ear.

“Nnnngh,” Gene groaned, his mouth misshapen by a swollen cheek.

Thank you, Jesus. “Gene, it's Sam.”

Gene's fingers tugged weakly at his sleeve. “'Time … is … it?”

Why the bleeding hell was he asking about the time? Sam squinted at his watch.

“'Took you … so long?”

Something slammed into Sam's chest. Breaths. Take deep, slow breaths. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.

He thought of Gene, sitting there, the look in his eyes as he realised that no one was coming to save him (not Sam), that he was going to die on his own in a cold, abandoned warehouse.

“Not … your … fault. Aggghhh ...” Gene sucked in a wet breath, coughed, blood flying from his lips. “Made a … right … dog's breakfast … of ...” He went quiet, dropping his head. His good eye closed. Stayed shut.

“Fuck, Gene--”

“Nnnngh,” Gene groaned, a tear running down the side of his nose.

Sam reached out and grabbed Gene gently by the shoulders, pulling him forward into his arms. His body was warm against Gene's. He hugged him as tight as he dared. Not far away, he could hear the urgent wail of the ambulance siren. “It's over. It's going to be okay. Almost time to go home,” he said softly.


End file.
